All my wars
by Verthril
Summary: They were brothers, back to back, all until one man became the wedge between them after one bitter betrayal. Before Stryker they were inseparable, the bastard sons of whores and a daddy they had left to rot back in Alberta. Family was blood, and when it came time to spilling it the choice was us or them. Tales of Jimmy Howlett and Victor Creed -a Fang and Claw companion piece.
1. Chapter 1

Marvel owns the X-men, no profit is to be made from this work.

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It was just one of those weeks, the kind where one thing lead to another and before he know it Victor found himself on the wrong end of a submachine gun. It was just him, Jimmy, and a whole mess of good ol' Canadian Whiskey meant as a mission of mercy to some thirsty Americans. The Prohibitionists could go on about abusing the stuff, but seeing the coppers taking axes to the aged oak barrels was the real crime.

Not that these were the coppers, no, the boys on the right end of the submachine gun were just the competition. It was actually better than running into the cops, that meant they'd keep the whiskey out of it, they were just looking to leave a couple of bodies in the ditch with a bit of dirt kicked on 'em for a grave.

"Jimmy?" Victor asked, not like he needed permission from his little brother.

That was a habit from all the wars, the runt always seemed to get that notch ahead to be calling the shots, fucking pretty boy. It just made things easier if he asked, it was all polite and courteous before he got to gutting a man.

"Just remember Detroit." Jimmy muttered, ignoring the submachine guns aimed at him and casually rolling a cigarette.

They were keeping a low profile, that meant the claws had to stay in, but everything else was fair game. Things like not giving much concern to getting shot, just so long as this rival gang of their employers were the ones making their way into a real shallow grave at the side of the road. He never really knew why people always got so nervous when he smiled, the dames always liked his smile.

Course he couldn't give two squirts of piss if the boys were a bit nervous, their fingers getting a little tight on the trigger. These boys had been stateside back during the Great War, it took more than a few submachine guns to phase him or his baby brother. They probably figured they were just another couple of Yanks looking to make a profit, they didn't know the mess of trouble they were in.

The Krauts learned real fast to get a bit nervous when the Canadians came a calling, and he was read to teach these boys that lesson. Taking off his jacket and throwing it to Jimmy, Victor took to unbuttoning his shirt like he used to for the bare knuckle boxing matches they used to hustle back on the wharfs of New York.

Rolling his neck and hearing a satisfying crack, he walked off away from the truck and their precious cargo. Jimmy was watching him with his cigarette pressed to his lips, striking a match and lighting up. There was a glance at his baby brother, the boys with the guns wondering just who they really should be worried about. Sure, he could have used that as an opening to get the drop on them, over all the wars they'd been in he'd learnt what a moment like that could mean. Even still he waited until all eyes were back on him, he couldn't have them missing the show.

His roar as he leapt was enough to have a few of these gangsters fall flat on their ass, their guns firing off a few aimless rounds. They expected him to run, charge, maybe even leap at them. They didn't expect him to close that distance in one bound, looking as if the hot lead was nothing more than a horsefly getting friendly.

He broke the first man's neck nice and quick, something he'd learnt in the trenches, and there was nothing quite like that noise or the scent of a mans bowels emptying into his drawers. It was a reminder of barbed wire and mud, of men proving they could be beasts when they buried enough of their friends.

Jimmy stood enjoying his smoke, watching it all play out in a mess of broken bones and borrowed knives. Every gun that still worked after the fight was just a bit more profit, sold on the side right along with their bootlegged whiskey. Flicking ash and watching the last die, he turned from the fight and climbed back on into the cab of the truck.

"How far is it to Chicago?" Victor asked, climbing up after a spell, shirtless and bloody.

"At this rate it's gonna be a long drive." Jimmy muttered, digging into their personal stash and uncorking the bottle with his teeth.

That'd suit him just fine, it was time to stop and smell the roses again. A man could only eat so much horse meat passed off as rations, there came a time he had to enjoy himself. It didn't hurt that there was a buck to be made, and just maybe he'd get one of those suits for himself that he saw these Italians sported.

"Wake me up when it's my turn at the wheel." Victor muttered, hunkering down for some shut eye as all the wounds inside healed.

It was old hat by now, they'd been running from one fight to the next long enough to know that one should always be on watch, back to back and ready to wake the other up.

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	2. Chapter 2

Marvel owns the X-men, no profit is to be made from this work.

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"Ya ready runt?"

Clenching down on his belt, Jimmy gave him the sign. Wrenching on the bone claw until it broke, his baby brother gave a muffled howl of agony to his own hiss of pain with how deep he'd been cut. Holding the length of claw in hand, he saw the other two itching to be free and pay back a bit of the pain he'd caused.

"First rounds on me once we get outta here." Victor whispered, picking apart the bone claw with his own.

Clenching his fist over his forearm, Jimmy was a man that looked like he could damned well use a drink.

"Just don't fuck up again." Jimmy grunted through his belt, spitting it out on when the pain faded to a dull ache.

"Best two outta three?" Victor chuckled with a wicked grin.

There wasn't much to the cell, other than the right kind of craftsmanship that had them in a pinch if they couldn't jimmy the lock. The work on the gallows in the town square was coming along sure enough, and just maybe if it had been a proper lynching they'd have just manned up and danced the dead man's jig. After the first time it wasn't so bad, most folk didn't linger around a lynching to see if you stayed dead.

"I'm gonna kill that son of a whore." Jimmy growled, the kind only a caged animal could give voice.

"That's my baby brother."

Some prick out there thought the had gotten the better of them, set them up as patsies to hang and leave him Scott free. If that fucker knew the world of hurt he was in for, then just maybe he'd be out there helping with the gallows and tying his own noose to make sure his neck snapped right and proper for a nice quick death.

"...and just a little to the left."

The click of the lock thrown open was the only signal the brothers needed to get while the getting was good. Finding a bottle of rot gut whiskey, Victor threw it to Jimmy as something to wet his whistle until they could get to a proper bar. Most everything that fell into their worldly belongings were locked up tight, but at least they had their hats to keep the sun off their heads.

"So just how we getting outta here?" Victor asked, eyeing the men watching the gallows get built, most with iron slung around their waste or cradling rifles in the crook of their arms.

"I hear stealing a man's horse is a hanging offense." Jimmy whispered with a feral grin.

"Ya think they'll really hang us twice if they catch us?" Victor asked, smiling back at his brother.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll just shoot us."

"Fuck, here's hopin' they don't got a pious man among 'em ta go burying us again."

Stealing the Sheriff's horse was a might akin to pissing on his freshly dug grave, but the Brits had a saying for moments like that. _In for a penny, in for a pound_. Starting off at a light canter and tipping their hats all polite like to the folks they passed, only as they got to the town limits did they get hell bent for leather.

"Remind me to ask who the hell we're shooting at next time." Jimmy barked as they kicked up a dust cloud behind them.

"Fuck me Jimmy, maybe it's time ta look for the kind o' fight where the guys ya want dead are wearin' a uniform."

The West was a mess, ya couldn't tell the good guys from the bad until they pulled out a badge and even then they were still as crooked as a dog's leg.

"Ask me again after you've bought me that first round, that nag yer riding oughta be worth that much at least to the right kind of man who won't gonna ask too many questions."

Grinning full of teeth fit for a coyote, Victor would hold his baby brother to that. The only honest living they were good at was killing, so that just meant finding the kind of fight where they'd see their three square a day and enough pay to see them to a good time between deployments.


End file.
